


for you the flag is flung

by achilleees



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: After Bittle caught Connor making out with Chad at that party, he needed someone to talk to. He pulled out his phone and thumbed through his contacts, hoping that one of them would spring out at him as the obvious choice.Halfway down the list, one did.“Yo yo yo,” Kent said upon answering. “What’s the sitch, my dude?”





	for you the flag is flung

**Author's Note:**

> follows the conceit that whiskey has already been drafted by the aces and he's just playing on smh for development.
> 
> i meant to post this ages ago but then i forgot so now i need to post it FAST before she joss's my content by having whiskey and bitty bond over pies or some bullshit. 
> 
> this fic is not particularly bitty-positive so ya mAY wanna turn back now if you're a fan.
> 
> the title is from walt whitman's 'oh captain my captain' because i think it's funny, not because it fits the mood of the fic AT ALL.

Connor’s roommates were thankfully out partying, so he was able to slump onto his bed with his fingers laced behind his neck without getting the third degree.

“Shit,” he said aloud to himself. It felt grounding, so he tried it again. _“Shit_.”

He stood up to pace when the excess of nervous energy drove him to it, gnawing on his thumbnail and weighing his options. If he didn’t talk it out, he knew it would just keep weighing on him, so he pulled out his phone and thumbed through his contacts, hoping that one of them would spring out at him as the obvious choice.

Halfway down the list, one did.

“Yo yo yo,” Kent said upon answering. There was a sizzling sound from his end, like he was sautéing something. “What’s the sitch, my dude?”

“Christ, no,” Connor said, already feeling better just from that. “Try again.”

“What’s the, uh, 411, daddy-o?” Kent said.

“Bittle just caught me making out with a guy,” Connor said.

There was a beat of quiet, then Kent let out a low two-tone whistle. “Sucks.”

“Yeah. Can we Facetime?” Connor said. Kent was always hard for him to read, but it was easier when he could see his expression.

“Yeah, can I call you back in a minute?” Kent said.

“Sure,” Connor said, and hung up, going back to pacing while he waited for Kent’s call.

When he answered, Kent was sitting on the couch with Kit in his lap, wearing a focused expression. “Hit me up, hip cat.”

“You didn’t have to – you could have kept cooking,” Connor said. “What are you making?”

Kent, graciously, allowed him the out. “Shakshuka? Only, like, with 300% more peppers. I think anyone in a Mediterranean country would take issue with the label.”

Connor laughed.

“If I were writing my white-person recipe book, I’d call it poached eggs in stewed pepper-feta-tomato sauce or some shit, but yeah, bastardized shakshuka,” Kent said.

“Feta, good. I was wondering where the calories were coming from,” Connor said.

“If you weren’t having a crisis, I would take offense to the suggestion that I am not a calorie-dense hunk of beefsteak,” Kent said mildly. “So are we going to talk about the crisis, or…?”

“It’s not a crisis,” Connor said, and he wasn’t lying. “I was making out with a guy at a party and he saw me. That’s all.”

“Like, he came into the room where you were getting down?” Kent said.

“No, he just saw me across – I mean, I wasn’t hidden,” Connor said. It sounded dumb out loud.

Kent raised his eyebrows, but other than that his expression didn’t twitch. “I don’t know that I’d call that _catching_ you making out. Clearly you weren’t trying particularly hard to keep it on the DL.”

“I don’t mind anyone _else_ seeing me,” Connor said. “It’s fucking _Bittle_ seeing me that…” He ground his teeth.

“Ah,” Kent said, in the carefully noncommittal tone he always got when Connor bitched to him about Bittle in particular. “I see.”

“Now he’s going to think I need a mentor in liking dick,” Connor said. “Like he doesn’t already stalk me enough.”

“Oh my god, there are going to be _heart to hearts_ ,” Kent said.

Connor groaned. “Not helping.”

“He’s going to bake you a rainbow cake,” Kent said with a little too much glee.

“Dude!”

“Right, right,” Kent said, abruptly serious, the way he got sometimes. Connor could never tell if he was putting on a mask or taking it off. “I’ve said it before – he’s your captain, that doesn’t mean he has to be your best friend. I know he doesn’t see it that way, but that’s his problem, not yours. All you can do is keep your head down and play your best game.”

“I’ve _been –_ ” Connor started hotly.

“I know you have, but hey, gold stars and brownie points aside, there’s nothing else you can do,” Kent said. “That’s the hand you’ve been dealt.”

Connor couldn’t meet Kent’s eye on the screen, feeling hot and small and flush with rage all over again. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Kent sighed, grinding his palm into his eye in a weary gesture that always made him look 10 years older.

“Why do you always have to be such a captain?” Connor said. “Why can’t you ever be…?”

“Because I _am_ your captain,” Kent said in a low voice. “Bittle’s just temping.”

Connor was hit with conflicting waves of emotion – pleasure at the reminder and annoyance that Kent, the only person who could possibly understand, had to be so mature and adult about the whole thing. “You’re not really my captain yet,” he said. “Can’t you just take a day off?”

“But I am,” Kent said. “And once you bend from that, you never really get it back. Is that what you want?” He looked seriously at Connor.

Connor pressed his lips together, getting the sense that he didn’t really understand what he was signing up for. But still he said, _“_ Yes.”

Kent picked up an Aces cap from somewhere out of frame. He spun it around his pointer finger a few times, then flipped it and jammed it backwards over his head in one smooth motion. “Then I’ma be real, that Bittle kid’s a fucking prick and I’d make his life a living hell if I had to play under him.”

The tension in Connor’s chest broke; he laughed aloud, delighted.

“God, where does he get off,” Kent said. “TBH, he doesn’t really register into my normal life – I got better things to think about than Jack’s pretty little Southern Belle, but from everything you’ve said, I would have accidentally slipped and taken a baseball bat to that oven if that’s what it took to get him to stop baking me sugary shit I didn’t ask him for.”

“Please go on,” Connor said, vindictively enjoying this.

“Believe me, you’re not alone in being annoyed that Bittle’s got a hand on parts of you that you wish he didn’t,” Kent said, face going shadowed. “But I’m not going to bother angsting about it when he’s got issues that a trained psychotherapist could use to fill a textbook. Keep that on your mind – his whole thing? It’s _his whole thing_ , and if you can’t let it go completely, the least you can do is be amused by it.”

“Yeah,” Connor said. He knew that consciously, but it was hard not to get annoyed by Bittle’s… everything.

“That said, I’m gonna have words with Jack about enabling this bullshit,” Kent said. “It’s not my place to tell him that he and Bittle are literally nauseating as a couple, but when baby boy’s needy shit bleeds into his captaincy, then it’s my problem. Can’t have him fucking up my prospects before I have a chance to beat them into shape.”

Connor grinned, but at the same time… He knew Kent and Jack didn’t talk much, and never about anything real. That relationship still had years of history behind it, and mending it was slow and careful work. He didn’t want to be the one to throw a wrench into things. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“On the contrary, my dude, I _want_ to do that,” Kent said. “It’s not just about you, remember.”

 _A hand on parts of you that you wish he didn’t_. “Right,” Connor said.

“Just, like, if he’s gonna try to bake you rainbow cakes, you can’t stop him from it,” Kent said. “But you don’t have to engage either. You’ve just got to make it through a few more months of this and then your real life can begin, home-slice.”

“Yeah,” Connor said. “Yeah.” He let out a slow breath.

“But make out with as many college dudes as you can while you’re still there, it gets creepy fast,” Kent added.

Connor laughed. “Wise words from the captain,” he drawled.

“I’m a fucking philosopher, son,” Kent said. “We good?”

“We’re good,” Connor said. “You can go back to cooking stewed eggs in poached feta or whatever.”

“Jesus, ew,” Kent said. “Oh, hey, question.”

Connor looked up at him.

“I haven’t asked because I don’t want to be, like, Bittle,” Kent started.

“God forbid,” Connor interjected.

“Truth,” Kent said. “But I was thinking. When you move out here and you’re shopping around for your own place… I’ve got a guest room, you know.”

Connor went quiet. It wouldn’t have seemed Bittle-ish if he weren’t already feeling raw, but…

“It’s just… Being a rookie, man, you’ve just moved into a new city, you’re working your ass off proving you’re good enough to make the roster, you’re tired and cranky and living in fucking Vegas, which is a slow-burn love affair of a city at best – it’s not worth the hassle,” Kent said. “Your first place of your very own should be something you’re in love with. It’s not worth committing otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Connor said, because it all made sense and he had to admit, it was tempting. “So you’re offering?”

“If you want,” Kent said. “Won’t be offended if you say no.”

“I’ll think on it,” Connor said. He smiled. “But can I say, coming from someone who three minutes ago was playing up the _Once I stop being your captain, I’ll never go back_ thing…”

“Okay, rude,” Kent said, all big eyes and affected offense. “A, how many fucking years did Croz live in Lemieux’s garage? And B, I repeat, rude.”

Connor chuckled.

“See if I don’t rescind the invitation after all,” Kent grumbled. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh wait, epiphany, conversational detour, brilliant idea, fireworks and pop rocks, bear with me. If I start sending you care packages from Vegas, will you please open them and eat them in front of him?”

Connor burst out laughing.

“Do empanadas travel well?” Kent said. “Or do I really have to go balls-deep and send fucking pies? I might have to start sending fucking pies. What’s his specialty? Please tell me it’s apple, there’s this world-famous apple pie from a local bakery that will genuinely make him lose his shit. Eat it with crème fraiche and watch his head explode.”

“You don’t have to convince me, sign me up,” Connor said. “I’ll take artsy pics for Instagram.”

Kent gave a literal squeal of excitement. “Oh my god,” he said. “Please film his reaction.”

“I’m offended you thought you had to ask,” Connor drawled.

“This is why you’re my favorite,” Kent said gleefully.

“Oh, I know,” Connor said. “I’m hot shit, that’s why all my captains are always riding my jock.”

“Eat a dick,” Kent said, flipping him off.

Connor checked his watch. It was still early, and he’d regained enough of his equanimity that he was mostly annoyed at ditching the party before it could get good. “Now that you mention it…”

“Wait, are you actually wasting your time talking to me when you could be getting laid?” Kent said. “The fuck’s wrong with you?”

Connor hung up the call, in a good enough mood now that he just laughed and screenshotted the barrage of apologetic texts Bittle had sent him while he was on the call, sending them to Kent with a :/ emoji for a caption.

 _PLEASE KILL ME,_ Kent sent back.


End file.
